Damned Back Blues
by The Orange Lady
Summary: In which fourteen years have gone by, the pack is taking down a skinwalker and Derek worries too much. Story in two parts.
1. Part I

**DAMNED BACK BLUES: PART I**

_In which fourteen years have gone by, the pack is taking down a skinwalker and Derek worries too much._

* * *

Derek shows up at his house at six in the morning. He rings the doorbell for once. Which forces Stiles limp to the door and open it for the werewolf, who then decides to just stand there on the porch like an idiot instead of coming in like a normal person. Stiles curses at his visitor and at himself. His body is always stiff and non-complying in the morning, old scars and injuries acting up before he has massaged or medicated them into order.

Derek has flint in his eyes and the set about his jaw tells Stiles that something is going down.

"What's it now?" he asks gruffly. Stiles does not take kindly to being awakened at what he considers ungodly hours, and even less kindly to having to make conversation before imbibing at least a small quantity of caffeine. He is as far from being a morning person that is physically possible without being a vampire. Hell, he has even met a vampire that's more of a morning person than he is.

"We're hunting a skinwalker today. It wandered onto our territory last night and murdered two kids in the woods. The police found them first and have started to investigate, but so far they think it's an animal attack. We have to take the skinwalker down before it hurts anyone else," says Derek. "You can't come with us. I don't want you out in the field."

"Aw shit! You can't make me stay here like I'm some damned…" He calms down when he sees the face Derek pulls. "Look, I've taken care of myself since I was a snotty teenager. I helped you with the kanima at age sixteen, for Christ's sake! You know, I really think I can manage now. Remember that episode when I had gun training and was Deaton's padawan for a year? And what about the Deal?"

The Deal is something that they have hashed out over the last couple of years, after Derek started getting too skittish to involve him in anything that might end in blood or tears. Basically it boils down to that Stiles has been forced to compromise his level of contribution to the pack business, while Derek has had to share a lot more information than he'd ever do willingly. It's far from making either of them happy, but it still means that Derek has to can his whining about the frailty of humans and that Stiles, with only a little self-restraint, can continue to participate in hunts, even if he does so from the outskirts. The Deal is something that they both follow religiously, for mutual benefit. The Deal is sacred.

"I know. But this is too dangerous. There's no way I'm letting a skinwalker get to you again. I can't risk that. If anything would happen to you, I couldn't…," Derek growls. He sounds desperate, which causes Stiles eyebrows to climb, but then he manages to collect himself. "I'll be calmer if I know that you're safe at home and wont get in the way. It's risky even for the rest of us. You know it didn't go down well the last time we took one of them."

"Oh, come on, Derek! But yeah, I remember. Skinwalkers being crazy strong and crazy fast. And plain crazy, did I mention that? The one we took down on the lacrosse field gave me this, after all," Stiles says and drags his fingers across his T-shirt, under which there are three jagged white scars on his chest and stomach. Derek winces at the movement, and Stiles immediately remembers handling the aftermath of him finding the teenaged Stiles splayed out unconscious in a stinking pool of his own blood. Werewolves and trauma do not mix well.

"We'll be in touch when we're done," Derek adds hastily. "If you don't hear from us in a couple of hours, you know we're in trouble. But until then I don't want you to come near this thing. You understand me?"

Stiles briefly thinks about bitching about it, but he knows that Derek means well. Derek probably thinks that he's protecting him by trying to keep him off the field. Life with the pack isn't exactly healthy for a human. Over the last fourteen years Stiles has gotten about as many injuries as the rest of them, but being human means he doesn't shrug them off like the wolves do. By age thirty has seen more of the hospital than he ever wanted to in his entire life. But that doesn't mean he wants to quit hunting with the pack. Derek understands that, but that doesn't hinder him from sending guilty and worried stares after him when he thinks Stiles doesn't notice.

"Stiles, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Capisce. Staying here. No problem," Stiles agrees.

* * *

Stiles spends the morning not being out hunting, like the good boy he is. Instead he's reading and rereading the information he gathered the last time they went after a skinwalker. The coffee pot is his best friend, but he paces himself after the third cup. Coffee doesn't make him bounce of the walls like it did in the good old days when he hadn't outgrown his ADHD yet, but now it prevents him from getting any sleep at all if he overdoses. Getting older sucks that way.

They really are nasty bastards, skinwalkers. Like werewolves, can either be born or made. They behave weirdly much like schizophrenics, Stiles thinks. For long periods they can keep it under control, but now and then they have psychotic breaks. Only that regular schizophrenics don't generally grow fangs, claws and scraggly fur and try to dismember anything living that comes within range. Unless they make an effort, the skinwalkers forget that they've turned. Resurfacing as human between changes leave them scared and confused. Sometimes the skinwalkers don't even know what they are. That freaks Stiles out most of all.

In the 1674 Bestiary of Gloucester that Deaton furnished him with there is a paragraph that mentions the possibility of controlling a skinwalker. Most of the book is complete bullshit, but Stiles thought it was cool until he met his first skinwalker in real life, and after that he wrote it off as creepy and downright impossible. Handling a skinwalker would be like juggling with dynamite with lit detonators. Sure, if you could juggle you could keep it going for a while, but the bomb would sure as hell go off no matter what.

The best part about the Gloucester Bestiary is the pictures. It's very clear that who ever made them had never seen a single one of the depicted creatures in real life. It's also likely that they had never seen lions, monkeys or horses. The picture of the skinwalker looks remarkably much like a cow that has grown talons and saber teeth. Stiles would be cracking up about it if he didn't know what it looked like in reality. The wonky illustration stares at him with mad asymmetrical eyes and a huge smile. Stiles glares back.

* * *

After four hours without contact Stiles is starting to get worried. He knows it's not irrational maternal behavior, based on what usually happens when he gets a bad feeling. But he stands down from the urge to throw himself at the jeep. He'll give it a little more time before freaking out.

He paces his tiny house, wandering the living room, kitchen, bedroom, and back again, until his leg starts to hurt too badly and he has to lie down for a while. He checks the inventory of his weapon closet, which Erica has deemed creepy, but Scott, Isaac and Boyd have called awesome on separate occasions. Everything is right where it should, which leaves him with nothing to do. He remembers that it was a while since he checked his utility bag, so he busies himself with unpacking and repacking it. It's got everything one might need if hunted by a supernatural monster. Seriously. It's got everything from extra knifes and ammunition to bandages, granola bars and a teeny tiny bottle of Jack that he stole from a motel fridge years back. Stiles checks and double checks that nothing is missing, and then adds one more cartridge of his own home made bullets.

He's mighty proud of the bullets, and he's pretty sure that even the Argents would approve of them. Not only is the round of pure iron, it contains a capsule with liquid wolfsbane and mountain ash that explodes on impact. It's his own recipe. To his knowledge the Argents only ever made wolfsbane bullets, but the mountain ash really goes that extra mile. The pack refuses to go near his house days after he's cooked the solution, claiming it stinks to hell. The bullets pretty much work on anything. So far nothing has survived them, and Stiles is damned sure he doesn't want to meet anything that would.

* * *

When seven hours has gone by he can't help himself, so he grabs the utility bag and his gun and heads for the jeep. The tracking device he stealthily installed on Scotts cell phone in an unsupervised moment leads him to a secluded part of the woods that no one ever visits voluntary. Derek has been irrationally adamant about patrolling the area heavily, which there has been an equally irrational amount of whining about from the rest of the pack. As always, it turns out that Derek's right. Stiles does not look forward to the triumphantly irritating _'I told you so'_ from the alpha and the grudging death stares from the betas. Stiles drums the steering wheel as he drives and steadily pushes the speed limit in a way that his dad would be very disappointed with.

It looks like a tornado has raged through the woods. Trees are torn from their roots and the ground is scuffled like a herd of elephants has had a wrestling match, which everybody lost. Stiles bends down and flicks at a pool of blood drying into the ground, wishing to god that he had the olfaction of a werewolf so he'd know who the blood belonged to.

Stiles follows the tracks on the forest floor and scuffed trees. He has become quite the good tracker over the years. He's had to. The trail is clear and it is obvious that something ridiculously violent has gone down. He finds pieces of a plaid shirt that he is pretty sure belongs to Boyd stuck on a branch ten feet up.

There is a clearing up ahead, where there's an old abandoned cabin. The pack has patrolled it for years, but never broken into it. When Stiles gets closer he sees that the door has been torn off its hinges and the windows smashed, and who knows what else had gone down.

The clearing is silent. It's too silent and it rubs him the wrong way. Stiles just knows that there's something there. He hefts his gun and unconsciously falls into his battle stance, jogging up to the building as quietly as he can with every nerve in his body on fire.

Something big shoots past Stiles from out the cabin window with an incredible speed and he unloads the gun at it by instinct. He misses, or at least he thinks he does. There's a rough growl from the woods that morphs into a ragged, horrible laughter.

The wolves are tied up and sitting on the floor. The ropes are entwined with wolfsbane, which explains how they are still fighting it without any success. Erica and Isaac are unconscious, but Derek, Scott and Boyd stare at him with big eyes when he climbs through the window himself. They look quite undignified sitting there on the floor, four grown men and a woman, tied together like in a comic book. The gold and red spots glow in the semidarkness. Stiles draws his knife and starts sawing at the ropes.

"'Stay offa the field', huh? Can't go one day without me," he whispers teasingly into Derek's ear as he cuts him loose. His lips nudge stubble as he speaks and Derek startles at the touch. As soon as the wolves are loose, he throws the rope to the farthest corner.

When they stand up, he can see that Derek's healed already, but that the betas are still sporting flesh wounds in different stages of mending. Boyd groans, but still manages to heft up Erica's unconscious body over his shoulder and lift Isaac with one arm like they are ragdolls.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks. He can feel Derek's eyes rake over his body for affirmation, but he does his best to ignore it.

"Yeah, sure," he says, but is distracted by a sudden thought. Something isn't right. The wolfsbane rope is not something deranged monsters whip up just like that. It takes reasoning, planning and _thumbs_. It's decidedly not the product of a crazed killer monster. Stiles turns it over in his brain until there's only one logical explanation left. Damn it if the Gloucester Bestiary wasn't right for once.

"Listen to me, a fully transformed skinwalker couldn't have tied you up like this. How many were there? One? Two? More?" he asks desperately.

"I didn't see, I don't know," Scott starts. "There was one in the clearing, but then I just blacked out and then…"

"Goddammit! Were there one or two?"

"There were two," Derek fills in grimly.

"Oh shit," Stiles curses. "Oh shit."

Then a scream that cuts through flesh and bone rings through the cabin. Wolves and man turn towards the sound. It's coming from outside and has died down as abruptly as it began. And then the wailing starts.

* * *

_(Part one of out of two. I'm updating as soon as I can, I'm almost done with the next part! I'd love to hear what you think of it, so please review! _

_The title is stolen from Esbjörn Svensson Trio. Gotta love that jazz.)_


	2. Part II

**DAMNED BACK BLUES: PART II**

* * *

_(This part is a lot more NSFW. There's death and sex and other messy stuff. Don't like man on man action? — don't read.)_

* * *

There's a woman sitting on the ground just outside the cabin. Her naked body is crusted with dirt, like she hasn't washed herself for months. Her torn and bloody hands are pressed against her abdomen; tears are streaming over her face.

"What happened?" she cries hysterically. "Where am I? What…?"

"Oh _shit_!" Stiles whimpers. It's the skinwalker. It's got to be. Apparently he didn't miss when he shot at it. He figures that the shock of the wolfsbane and mountain ash forced it to change back to its human state.

They need to kill it now before it changes back again, but there's no way that they can brutally kill some disoriented woman just like that. That would be murder. It's unthinkable. Stiles' brain grasps after solutions that wouldn't be against his moral code, but then Derek goes ahead and fixes everything. He's good like that. Sometimes Stiles forgets that he actually has great skills in problem solving, leadership and generally has a high EQ, even if he does his best to hide it.

"Do you remember your name? Do you know what happened here?" Derek asks her. He uses the commanding voice he normally uses to order the betas around. It's kind, but there's very obviously steel underlying.

"I don't know, I don't know what happened, I don't know…" The woman is on the verge of falling into hysterics again.

"What's your name?" Derek insists, his voice softer this time.

"My name's Caroline," she says with sudden clarity, like she's remembering something from long ago.

"Caroline, we had to fight you before. You were shot. You are in pain, but I can stop that. I can help you," Derek says and edges closer to the woman. "I can make it stop right now. Do you understand what I am staying? Do you want that?"

"Yes," the woman sobs and looks up at him like he's her savior. Stiles is guessing he actually is. It's breathtaking to watch Derek handle her. He radiates a calm solidity that says that he knows what he's doing and that everything is going to be alright. Stiles gulps when the alpha puts a reassuring hand on the skinwalkers naked, human shoulder. In that moment he's almost magnetic.

"I'll make it quick. It'll hurt, but then it's over. Then it stops forever. Okay?"

"No more pain?" she asks, not sobbing any longer. She understands what he's offering, Stiles realizes. She wants it.

"No more pain," Derek promises. He gently pushes her down on the ground and then swipes his claws over her throat like he did with his uncle Peter all those years back. And that's it. It's over quickly, just like he promised.

* * *

"What happened?" Erica asks when she comes to. Her wounds are almost healed by then, but a nasty bruise still remains on her forehead. When she has wriggled loose from Boyd's grip she sees the dead woman and goes: "Oh."

Isaac resurfaces not long after and immediately lets out a terrible howl. Stiles almost gets a heart attack and leaps up from the stone he's been leaning against. Being the appointed medic of the group, he pats Isaac down, and then finds what it is. A handle it sticking out of Isaacs back. In any other context it would've been comical. The skinwalker, or more likely her handler, must have stuck it in his back while they were fighting, and the wound is now struggling to scab over.

"Yeah, we need to fix this pronto! I don't think it's poisoned or anything, but it's gotta hurt like a bitch," he says. "Derek, will you have the honor?"

Scott takes Isaacs's arms, Boyd the legs, and Derek pulls at the handle until it comes loose. It's an axe. It's not one of those big ones, but it's still pretty nasty.

"Holy shit, dude! You almost got killed by an axe!" Scott happily exclaims into Isaacs ear. Isaac is not as happy, and lets out whimper in response before blacking out again.

Stiles stays by Isaac, Derek lurks close by, and the rest of the wolves start to ambulate the clearing. They still have to catch the handler. The skinwalker, Caroline, might have been a dangerous, but whomever controlled her is the real monster. They've got to take him down.

Scott stumbles over the scent behind the cabin. It's barely there, over the stench of blood, wolfsbane and the dead skinwalker, but it's there alright. It's human. The rest of the wolves are on it in a heartbeat. Erica, Boyd and Scott bound after it in an incredible speed, but Derek lingers behind.

"I could stay with you, make sure that you got home safely…" he begins. "Isaac can't protect you when he's like this, you might need…"

"We'll be safe. I'll shoot anything that moves. Don't worry. You go after the bastard," Stiles says and waves him off. The alpha gives him a quick glance, eyes glowing red and feral, and then he bounds off into the woods in a dark blur.

When Isaac comes to again Stiles limps back to the jeep with him to patch him up properly. Isaac never did heal as quickly as the others, and nowadays Stiles is almost as good at patching him up as Deaton. He whines the entire time and Stiles pulls the same puppy jokes he has used for the last decade to both placate and annoy him. There's familiarity and safety in their banter that they both sorely need, because fishing splinters out of a wound that stupidly tries to close itself is not exactly pleasant.

When they finally are done, Stiles loads the thin and flayed werewolf onto the back seat of the jeep, hands him a bottle of water and bitches about how hard it's going to be to get the blood stains out of the upholstery. Isaac is ghastly pale, but his perpetual smirk is starting to climb back on his face, which means that he's going to live.

"Hey, why weren't you with us from the start today? What about the deal you and Derek have? I thought he had to let you tag along," he asks when they are speeding through the woods.

"He came to me this morning and nixed any participation on my part. Played out the whole '_if you don't hear from us in the next couple of hours, we're all dead_' thing and had me swear not to leave the house. Cute."

"He cares about you."

"He has a funny way of showing it, if you ask me."

"Derek has a funny way with relationships. He's had his eyes on you since we were in high school or something. I don't think you get it."

"Isaac, shut up. That's just a massive head trauma talking, you don't really mean that. If Derek heard what you just said, he'd have both our heads on spikes George R. R. Martin style. And I like my head, thank-you-very-much. I'm quite attached to it, see."

Isaac shrugs as well as anyone can when squeezed onto the backseat of a car while slowly bleeding out, but takes the hint and shuts up for the rest of the ride.

When they get to the Hale house Isaac has healed enough to be able to walk up the stairs to the porch by himself. Stiles stays until he has closed the front door and locked it. Then he drives home.

Stiles himself has a lot more trouble getting up the porch stairs to his own house. He's happy that there's no one around to se him miserably fail to limp up the few steps the first few tries. His leg is fucked up bad. Walking too much makes it hurt, and here he's been jumping and running around in the woods like an idiot.

He doesn't like to take the painkillers his doctor has given him. It would be nice to get rid of the cramps and smarts, but it's not worth the daze the meds puts him in. Even if he's just going to lay low for the rest of the night, he's not keen on turning into zombie-Stiles while there is a pseudo-supernatural psychopath ambling the woods. When he has locked the door behind him he pretty much falls into the living room.

"You are my bestest friend ever," he tells the sofa and lovingly slumps down in it face first. He tries massaging his thigh back to submission, but it doesn't help too much.

He is not worried about Derek or the pack, Stiles decides. He is absolutely not at all worried that anything might happen to them. The skinwalker is dead, and then psycho who used her is just a human. It's going to be an easy one for the pack. He's got no reason to be worried at all. He tells himself that Derek will be in touch when they are done hunting. Stiles knows he will, so he decides to stay up until he does.

* * *

It's past two in the morning when Stiles wakes up. He's sure he has drool on his face. He's also pretty sure that there was a knock on the door.

"Let yourself in," he calls, just in case. "You want some beer?"

He hears someone fumble with keys and then Derek appears at the door. He looks tired and hasn't bothered to change out of his bloody, dirty clothes.

"Yes. Please," he says.

Stiles limps past him on his way to the kitchen. Even after the nap, his leg is hurting badly and is hard to keep in check. He gets self conscious about it when he's around Derek, and he hates that he's too tired to fake a better gait. He can see that Derek itches to push him down on the sofa and make him stay put, but they both know that it would be pointless. Derek knows better than to try to order him around when they're alone. Stiles still knows that he takes it hard to see him limp around with his bad leg, though. It's stupid. There was nothing that he could've done about it anyway.

The whole thing about his leg was stupid, really. Something had started to gut animals in the woods and then moved on to an old lady and some middle-aged campers. The pack investigated and found tracks and a scent, but it wasn't quite right. It wasn't something they recognized, so they had no idea what it was. It had ended with a crazed hunt through the woods. The murderer had caught on to Stiles before the pack could do anything, and they ran and ran until they got to the road. Neither of them had seen the minivan coming. When Derek got there he exploded had in a fit of rage and thrown the minivan off the road. Stiles was splattered unconscious on the tarmac, but the murderer was mewling curses and weakly gripping at his broken chest and legs. Boyd had to shove Derek up against a tree to keep him from breaking the neck of the murderer until the ambulance crew and the police came. The doctors did their best to fix Stiles up, but there was only so much they could do. They made sure he'd heal right, but even then they knew he wouldn't run again. Derek had a quality talk with the murderer who was chained this bed in an emergency room. The man smelled wrong, too metallic and clean and crazy, so it was no wonder that it had stumped the pack for so long. In their little talk they agreed on that Derek was going to find him and take his sweet time with him before ending him. So that was exactly what Derek did. In the end the murderer turned out to be completely human, too. Funny how it works out sometimes.

"How did it go? You got him?" Stiles asks while digging through the fridge.

"We got him alright. He tried to fight us, but there was nothing to it. Boyd broke his neck. We buried him down by the lake. The skinwalker — Caroline too. I can show you the place later, if you want," Derek grumbles as he hits the sofa.

"And everyone's okay?"

"He shot Erica in the head, but she's fine. He used a regular gun. Idiot."

"Yeah, like a bullet to the head would stop a bitch like that, eh?" Stiles says and makes Derek chuckle.

"Don't let her hear you say that."

"No thank you, I value my life, believe it or not."

When he gets back with the beer, Derek insinuates himself by his side on the sofa. The medication Stiles takes to keep the pain at bay has worn off during the day, and he smells less of chemicals and more like just himself. Derek enjoys it.

They drink their beer, Stiles rambling on about whatever and after a while Derek stops noticing what he's saying and just listens to his voice. His eyes are locked the thin white scar that trails down Stiles' throat and down under his shirt. The scar was a gift from the Alpha pack, and it still pains Derek that he didn't know about it until Erica called from the hospital.

Stiles knows that Derek wouldn't ever admit to how relieved he is to have him in the pack. He bounces back from absolutely anything, and except from the scars, he's still the same person. He's sharp as a razor and hilariously weird at times like he always has been, and he's simply Stiles. He's the constant Derek so fervently needs. He knows that.

"I feel kind of shitty about that woman. Caroline. I know that we couldn't have done anything for her, but still," says Stiles. "People shouldn't get dragged into things like this. It's messed up. It's horrible."

"We did something for her. We set her free."

"We killed her, you mean."

"Sometimes that's the same thing. People with that kind of curse have nothing to go back to. They can't change who they are. Death can solve that. It can give them peace. For someone like her, it was the only thing we could do."

"Huh," Stiles says thoughtfully. "More beer?"

"No."

When Stiles tries to get up again, Derek instinctively puts his hand on his chest and pushes him back down again. It's obvious that he wants them to remain on the sofa a bit longer, and just this once Stiles plays along. It's one of those moments that just should last a little bit longer, and this time actually can. Stiles gives him an unimpressed look, but that he doesn't really mean it at all. Stiles' heartbeat is steady under Derek's hand, but he can see the Alphas pulse racing in the grove of his throat. It would be so easy to let that warm hand slide down his warm stretch of body, and this once Derek does just that. His fingers dig through the flannel shirt and finally rests on Stiles' stomach. The gesture is innocent enough, but from the mutual hitch of breath, they both know exactly what it is about.

Derek freezes. There's something decidedly puppy like about him at that moment. His face is filled with open concern and if Stiles didn't know better he'd say he was afraid, like he was doing something he wasn't allowed to. If he had his doggie ears out they would be turned backwards and he would definitely be whining.

"Go ahead," Stiles breathes, almost chuckling. "Come on."

Quietly gulping after air, Derek lets his hand slide further down. This time it stops over worn denim. Stiles fights the urge to throw himself over the wolf and kiss the daylights out of him right then and there. It's a bad idea, he knows that. Derek may be well past thirty, but damn if he ever got over his intimacy issues. If this is going to happen, it needs to happen in his pace.

"Do you want this?" Derek asks, his voice low and hoarse. "Because I can…"

"If you say you'll stop, I'll kill you," he grits out. "Yes. Yes, I want it."

The heel of his hand digs into his jeans, which makes it impossible for Stiles not to moan out. He pushes back in the sofa and suddenly there are soft lips and stubble pressed to his face. Derek places light kisses on his jaw and throat, and works his way up towards his mouth, which takes an eternity too long. He's tentative when he finally gets there, like he's not sure if he's allowed to. Stiles tries to pace himself. He really does. But there's only so much a man can do. Derek presses small kisses on his lips, but that isn't enough. Stiles opens his mouth, flickers his tongue out and then bites his lower lip. Derek whines into his mouth.

Derek's tongue is surprisingly flat and broad, a bit like a dogs. Stiles doesn't mind, because even if the kisses has started to turn surprisingly sloppy and a fang occasionally tries to pierce his lips, he is kissing Derek. He tastes deliciously of beer, forest and himself, but not exactly like Stiles imagined.

Derek wedges a knee between his thighs and leans over him on the sofa to get a better angle. Said knee nudges his cock a few times, but not on purpose. Stiles bites back moans to not stress him out, until the knee pushes down on him properly. He shuts his eyes and groans messily.

"Is this okay, do you…" Derek starts.

"Oh, shut up. Shut up," he says and grinds upwards.

It all clicks in place then. Derek exhales hoarsely, eyes glowing laser red. He unbuttons Stiles' shirt quickly and, with a little bit of cooperation, drags off his T-shirt. Stiles tugs at his bloodstained shirt, but gives up when Derek starts unbuttoning his jeans. Prioritizing is important.

Stiles rakes his hands down his chest, feeling the muscle and warm skin underneath the thin cotton. Derek tries to imitate the movement, but his hands abruptly clench at his hips instead when Stiles presses the naked length of his body against his. If Stiles had even the least of worries about Derek being hard or not, it's gone now. The solid shape of his cock is obvious, even through the tight layer of denim. They are both breathing like they are running a marathon.

Locking eyes, Derek lets his hand slide the few inches from his hipbone to his cock. Stiles curses under his breath and reflexively closes his eyes when the warm hand starts to relentlessly stroke up and down.

He is pretty damn close to coming when Derek slides off the sofa and kneels on the floor between his legs. At first Stiles blinks in confusion, wondering if he has decided that it all was a bad idea. But then, you know, he sees him. Derek's panting and the sweaty sheen on his brow makes him glow in the dull light of the reading lamp. His bloodstained T-shirt is pulled down somewhat, exposing clavicles and dark chest hair. If Stiles ever thought that the werewolf's intense stares was hot before, it's nothing compared the severe concentration he now focuses on him. Derek unbuttons his own jeans like an afterthought.

Derek starts jerking himself off with his left hand, slowly at first then quickening the pace. He leans forward and kisses the scar on Stiles' thigh, working his way from the knee and inwards. After an eternity too long he reaches his groin and then — Stiles really has no choice but to tug at his hair and convulsively whisper "fuck". He leans back in the sofa and enjoys the sloppy laps at his cock and the building pressure in his lower stomach.

Derek's flat tongue feels fantastically good. He sucks just enough and his tight lips finds just the right places. For a while there, it's paradise. The pace comes off kilter and there is a jittery pause of messy breathing and claws digging into his calf. Derek groans and lets his warm wet mouth slide off from his cock. Stiles knows that Derek just came. It's ridiculously hot.

Then Derek replaces his sorely missed mouth with a hand to stroke up and down, and it really is just as good at that moment. Possibly better, even. A few jerks are all that's needed. Stiles comes with a sigh.

* * *

Derek trails his fingers over the three white scars across his chest that the previous skinwalker had given him. His thick stubble tickles Stiles' stomach as he turns his head to look up at his face. There's a hint of a stupid smile on his lips and his eyes are slightly unfocused.

"Okay," murmurs Stiles after some consideration. "How long?"

Derek borrows his nose in his stomach, and Stiles just knows that he's not going to answer that without a fight and some slight shaming.

"Come on, you've got me naked on a sofa, you can tell me," he reasons, but Derek stays silent. "Since this morning? You were pretty intense then. But no, you wouldn't be this quick about it. You've got to have angsted about it for at least a couple of months. Life's no fun without tormenting yourself, right? What about last New Years Eve then? Don't think I didn't notice when you gave me the evil eye when I left with that chick! Your eyebrows aren't exactly discrete, I'll have you know. Okay, but it's got to be after that weird fling you had with Evelyn-what's-her-name the year after Scott and I came back from college. I mean, you were kind of clingy when I…"

"Stiles. Shut up."

"Oh my god. But that's like seven ye…"

"Shut up."

Stiles borrows his fingertips in Derek's scalp and tugs lightly. Derek growls tiredly and wraps both arms around his waist in response. They are both warm and sweaty, but it's nice to cuddle so close. If it was up to Stiles he'd fall asleep right there and then, but he still feels that he has some things to say before he can do that.

"You have to let me do more stuff for you. I mean, like today. I should have been out there with you. I could've shot it before you all got into that fight. Could've ended it right then and there. Let me tell you, from what I saw that fight must've been nasty. I probably could have helped out in some way," Stiles rambles. He tries to prove a point, but he's a bit preoccupied with the stubble tickling his waist. Everything feels so good.

"No," Derek mutters. "I would've been distracted."

"You can't go on sheltering me like this. I'll go nuts, seriously. I get that you've felt protective of me if you've thought of me, well…_this_ way for _that_ long. But come on, you got to lighten up on me."

Derek chuckles and sort of bobs on Stiles' stomach.

"Like this is going to make that better," he mumbles and buries his nose in Stiles' waist again. "If you think I was sheltering you before, I've got bad news for you. I don't think I'll ever allow you to get in harms way again. Can't risk it. That sweet ass of yours? Too precious to get scratched by any monsters. No way I'll let that happen. The Deal is off."

Stiles can feel his sleepy smile against his skin, and strokes his hands through sweaty graying hair.

"Oh yeah?" he murmurs. "You think so?"

"Oh yeah."

**THE END**

* * *

_(Part two of two. I apologise for my bad English! It's my second language and it doesn't come easy to me. But I'm pretty happy with this fic, even if I haven't worked on it as much as I probably should have! What do you think? Did you like it? Please review! _

_...Now I'll go back to work on my other Teen Wolf series, Smokestack Lightnin'. I'll finish it sometime, I swear.)_


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